Page 49 of The Quest for Excalibur
Even though the hour was still early, Nial must have had lookouts posted, as any wise village elder would. As we jog-trotted into the cluster of barns and sheds that made up the landward part of the village, he emerged from one of the barns, a long piece of dried grass dangling from his lips and a grin on his face.
“Arthur. Milady Guinevere.” The seed head on the grass danced as he spoke, and he bobbed a bow.
A small, wizened man even when I’d first met him, the years had only served to enhance his likeness to some woodland sprite, incising deep lines across his face, and gnarling his hands like knotted roots. His skin had burnt to a deep brown that might have been summer sun, or dirt, and his hair had thinned to a sparse fringe around a bald patch that had all but taken over his head. He grinned, revealing gaps where he’d lost teeth.
Arthur swung down from the saddle and held out his hand. “Nial. Well met.”
Nial took his hand, and they shook like the old friends they were. “Arthur.” No milording for a man who’d known Arthur as a callow youth.
I slid down from Alezan, glad to have my feet on the ground after our fast ride. “Nial. It’s good to see you looking so well.”
He bobbed another bow to me. “Can’t complain. And ’tis good to see you both as well. Bin a while since you rode this way.” His eyes strayed past me. “D’you not have guards with you terday?”
Arthur shook his head. “Just us. We’re on a very particular journey. We need your help. A boat across to the island would be useful.”
Nial bobbed a third bow, perhaps in affirmation. “O’ course, o’ course. I’ll tek you m’self. It’ll be like old times. You, me, a boat an’ a fishin’ rod.”
Arthur laughed. “You’ll be the one with the rod, I’m afraid. The queen and I have a different mission in mind, tempting though the thought of fishing is.”
Nial chuckled. “When did you not have somethin’ on yer mind?”
He shouted a quick “hoi” and a couple of younger men emerged a little shyly from the small barn. “Tek the king’s horses for him, an’ see they’s rubbed down well. You know what to do.” He turned back to us. “You know the way.”
I did indeed. And didn’t like it. I shot a worried glance at Nial’s small and skinny frame, and those of the two men who were leading away our horses. All of them half Arthur’s size. That walkway had a distinct look about it of only being strong enough to support scrawny village dwellers– and them only one at a time. But needs must. And as it stood on wooden legs, surely the water couldn’t be deep. Not that I fancied a dip in the murky depths. After all, where did the toilet waste of the village go? I took a deep breath and stepped onto the walkway.
Every time I came here it had been the same. That bloody walkway, which looked wide from on the land, once embarked on shrank to barely the width of my body. Or so it seemed. The only way to do this was to hurry, so I fairly galloped across it, convinced that at any moment bits of it might collapse– like a dodgy Indiana Jones rope bridge.
Arthur strode across it without a fear in the world– of course. I had to wonder sometimes if he lacked the imagination to be afraid of some things, or was just plain braver than me. Probably a bit of both.
Despite the early hour, the village teemed with activity. In the central open space, surrounded on all sides by the roughly constructed houses, the women, as small, sun-browned and withered as their men, sat gutting fish, their husband’s nets put aside. Their older children were busy stringing the gutted fish on frames ready to go into the smoke house.
The rank stink of fish clung to everything, and underfoot scales glittered on the wooden boards. A couple of buckets of entrails sat between the women, fast filling as they worked, and a few mangy cats stalked about, eyeing the racks of fish and meowing hungrily.
The women’s blank, incurious eyes followed us as we passed through their workspace, and the grubby, half-naked toddlers playing amongst the buckets of fish froze, mouths hanging open, staring.
We squeezed between two of the thatched houses to reach the little landing stage at the back of the village, where a low platform led down to a cluster of flat-bottomed boats. With a grin, Nial offered a rough and callused hand, and I stepped into the boat, which rocked alarmingly until I sat down on the narrow seat across the middle. With a hand gripping each gunnel, I felt a little steadier. Until Arthur stepped lightly in beside me and set the boat rocking again.
Bloody well sit down.
He did, in the bows, and Nial, after untying the mooring rope, hopped onto the stern with a long pole in his hands and pushed us off.
We drifted out into the gentle current, and the mist crept in from the marshes to shroud the village behind us. Only the dark rooftops showed above the soft whiteness. Bare feet gripping the rough wood, Nial propelled the boat onward with his long pole. We could have been taking a trip in a punt in Oxford, were it not for the cool dampness the descending mist had brought.
Arthur leaned back in the bows, the mist beading droplets of moisture in his dark hair like seed pearls. I sat bolt upright in the center, trying not to think about how deep the water beneath us might be, or about our transport’s possible watertightness, or lack of it.
Thick weed trailed beneath the water’s surface in long green tresses, drifting in the current, and beyond the mist a male bittern boomed, an unseen ghost of the marsh. Glimpsed briefly to our right, a heron strutted in the reeds, tall and almost prehistoric in appearance. And over to our left a moorhen sped for cover.
I kept my tight grip on the thin wooden sides of the boat, knuckles white, glad for Nial’s guiding presence. I’d never have been able to navigate the intricacies of these braided channels, between the endless ephemeral islands of reeds and marsh grasses.
Wielded by Nial’s experienced hands, the pole made scarcely any noise, and the mist seemed to mute all other sound, just the gentle lapping of the water breaking the silence.
Arthur broke that silence. “Nial? I need to ask you a question.” His voice sounded loud, out of place and intrusive, as though an alien creature had invaded the marshes. A creature used to giving orders. I wanted to tell him to be quiet.
Our guide inclined his head, never taking his eyes off the river. “Ask away, Arthur.” Somehow, his voice, soft and a little rough, felt a part of the misty marshlands.
Arthur lowered his voice. “Have you ever heard tell of a place on the island where offerings were made to the old gods?”
My ears pricked.
